He pierced me too—in birth and in death—He
a knife carving and shaping my heart while
old Simeon, who told of it, was laid
open like a scroll.
Mercy’s divide yet parts my lips in song;
steels will, stills fear as when I carried him.
I sing the holy one who keeps promise
with love’s blessings to lowly ones; a place
at table to starving ones and servants;
with mysteries for me and all the rest whose
hearts, once rent, now ponder.
As a child, he’d ask, “Where’d you learn the song?”
I’d wink and smile, “From your father, I think.”
He’d roll his eyes as wond’ring all along.
